CHAPTER 1 #3
“Being famous is my worst nightmare.” She paused, then raised a finger as something worse occurred to her. “That—and Burning Man. Too many hippies.”
He laughed. “There’s a reason I’m on the road a hundred days a year.”
She nodded. “Sebastien’s always saying, ‘As long as Cary’s on tour we’re keeping the lights on around here.’”
His gaze locked onto hers. Steady. Unflinching.
“I tour for my fans,” he said. “Not Sebastien.”
Yeah. Fuck Sebastien.
“Hi, Cary!” the gaggle of women shrieked in unison.
He twisted around and gave them a royal wave, and Tyler glared in their direction.
“So,” he said, turning back to her like nothing was happening, “what’s going on at the office?”
“Oh, the usual.” Like Sebastien yelling at the interns and anyone else within earshot. Everyone in the music industry called him “Sebastard,” but he couldn’t have cared less about his bad reputation.
As an afterthought she said, “Nothing much new around here.”
“Have you heard anything good lately?”
“The new Billie Eilish is pretty solid.”
“I mean, any new bands?” he clarified.
“Oh my god, there’s this band from Toronto I’m in love with!” She played one of their songs in her head.
Cary smiled at the gaggle as they took selfies like Kardashians. “Are we signing them?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s a girl band.”
“And?” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his wrists.
“When was the last time Sebastien managed a female artist?” she asked flatly. “Exactly. Never.”
Her boss wasn’t just an egomaniac—he was a proper misogynist.
Cary counted on his fingers, then nodded. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He blew on his coffee before taking a sip. “Anything else you’re into?”
“There’s this indie band I’m managing—Yestown.” She paused. “Sebastien doesn’t think they’re any good.”
At first, it pissed her off that her boss didn’t believe in them. But the longer she thought about it, the more she realized—his lack of interest was a gift. No interference. No controlling contracts. Just her and the band.
She was the manager of record. And she was going to break them—with or without Sebastien.
“I’d take on that girl band too,” she added. “But I haven’t seen them play yet.”
“What kind of music are you looking for?” he asked.
“Anything, as long as it’s good.”
“I listen to everything.” He adjusted his glasses. “Well, just about.”
“Polka?” she teased.
”I wish my album covers looked that cool.”
She nearly spit out her coffee. Polka album covers were so cheesy they almost circled back to good.
“It’s all about the song, don’t you think?” she asked.
“Absolutely.” He nodded. “What’s your favorite record?”
“I couldn’t pick just one,” she said. “It’s like choosing your favorite kid. I mean . . . I’d imagine.” She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “Do you have a favorite?”
“Anything by the Humbler.”
As they chatted, the coffee shop patrons closed in on them like zombies in Michael Jackson’s Thriller video.
“It’s getting crowded,” she muttered, her patience thinning with every phone camera raised in Cary’s direction.
He glanced around, then back at her. “Want to get out of here?”
“Yes!” she said, jumping to her feet. “We can head back to the office, load your mail into my truck, and I’ll drive you home.”
Regret washed over Tyler as soon as the words left her mouth.
After grabbing the mail from the office, Tyler walked down the stairs to SDM’s parking garage with Cary, her dog heeling obediently at her feet.
She pointed to the car parked beside hers. “My next one’s going to be electric,” she mused.
Right now, she couldn’t afford anything newer. She glanced at him. “Are you sure you don’t want to call for a car?”
While sorting through the mail, she’d admitted—somewhat ruefully—that her truck was a little beat up. Maybe he’d prefer a more comfortable ride home. But Cary had waved it off without hesitation.
He hoisted the heavy mailbags into the trunk, then slid into the passenger seat like it was nothing.
“Nope. This is great,” he said. Then, spotting her wrestling Rory into his seatbelt harness, he added, “Need a hand?”
“I’m good,” she said.
But she wasn’t good at all.
Rory squirmed like a worm on a fishing hook, and she had nothing to reel him in. As she fumbled with his harness, it slipped through her fingers—he hurdled the console, landing in Cary’s lap and covering his face in frantic licks.
“Rory Robertson! Get down!”
“It’s fine,” Cary said, laughing as he steadied the miniature panda.
Rory loved riding shotgun.
Thankfully, her truck started after one turn of the key, so she headed south toward Yaletown on Richard’s Street. She drove slower than the speed limit because her two-million-dollar insurance policy wasn’t enough coverage with Cary sitting next to her.
He pointed to the window. “I live just around the corner.”
She tapped on the steering wheel. “Hey, have you heard the new Arkells song?”
Cary turned his head. “Who?”
“Arkells.” She annunciated clearly. “Their new song.”
“Arkells?” he asked again, clearly baffled.
“Oh my god, Cary!” She took her eyes off the road for a split second. “They’re my favorite band. Banger after banger.”
“I’ll check them out,” he said, amused. “You can turn left at the next street.”
“I know where you live. I have keys to your penthouse.”
His smirk was instant. “You do, do you?”
Okay, yeah—it sounded creepy out loud.
“I mean—the office has keys to your penthouse. For emergencies.”
“Relax.” He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I was joking.”
I’m never washing this hoodie.
When they arrived at their destination she hung her head and breathed audibly in relief.
Sebastien would have murdered her in cold blood if anything had happened to him.
Cary stepped out of the truck and leaned in and buckled Rory into the passenger seat like he was a VIP client. “There you go, little buddy.”
She shot her dog a cool stare before twisting toward the rear.
“Do you need any help back there?”
“I’ve got it, thanks.” He lifted the bags out of the truck with effortless ease. “I’m buried in paperwork today—might do some writing later.”
He circled around to her side, resting a forearm on the driver’s side window. His smile was slow, warm, and just shy of wicked.
“How about meeting me for a drink later? I’ve got some checks for Sebastien.” He nodded toward a bar across the street. “There’s a place right there.”
“Sure.” She gulped down the air bubble lodged in her throat. “Sounds good.”
Cary flashed his famous smile. “Thanks for the ride. Looking forward to tonight.”
As he walked away, Tyler stared straight ahead.
What did I get myself into?